EXCERPT

Compared to the earlier trip to the club, traversing the city streets at the late hour took less time. The previous chatter dulled to only noises emanated from the car engine and the occasional moans from Brittany. A few times she added her version of hissing between gritted teeth. Jag’s amazement of the young woman’s class continued. For all her faults being a rich, spoiled little girl, she was strong. He’d seen a side of her completely different from three days ago when he picked her up at the executive airport. He’d cursed to himself at least four times an hour for taking the detail. Hiring a few more employee was on his list of things to do the coming week.

Upon arrival at the Emergency entrance, Jag ran inside and grabbed a wheelchair. Once checked in, they waited a few minutes before called. After triage, the nurse wheeled Brittany through double doors and disappeared from sight. Jag spent the next two hours sitting, pacing, and bored out of his mind waiting in the lobby of the Parkland Hospital Emergency Room. No word of her condition began to wear thin. At two-fifty in the morning, it wasn’t like he could call anyone to help occupy his time. How long did getting an X-ray and fixing the problem take?

Guilt rose up in his thoughts over what happened. If he hadn’t left her side, she wouldn’t have made such a clumsy move and fallen. This wasn’t good. The least he could do was pay for the hospital bill. He only hoped the injury wasn’t more than a sprain, and she’d be up and running in a week. Jesus! In a week she’d be in Paris.

“Mick Jagger?” The name blaring from a woman from around the corner at first didn’t register

No, she didn’t.

He couldn’t believe Brittany told the hospital staff to call him that. He shook his head, looked around the lobby to see if anyone noticed and rose from the uncomfortable chair. Jag walked toward the woman, trying not to draw attention. Then, she called him again. Gritting his teeth, he made a slight gesture with his hand when he caught her regard. She smiled, but with a bit of disappointment on her face. Did she think the Mick Jagger was here? I mean, really?

“You can come in now. Thomas will give you a name badge and then escort you back to Miss Russell,” she told him.

After showing his ID and slapping the mugshot sticker onto his jacket, Thomas escorted him down one long hallway. Going through an automatic double door and into another corridor they finally came to the patient area with curtained-off bays on both sides.

As Thomas brought him further into the treatment rooms, Jag heard the all too familiar voice of his client. Brittany giggled and from the tone of her voice, he could tell she flirted with someone. She’d used the same inflection with him several times over the course of the past couple of days. This was a far cry from the way she spoke a few hours ago, whimpering and groaning from the pain.

“Miss Russell’s in here,” Thomas said.

“Thanks.”

Thomas turned and left Jag standing there in front of the pulled curtain.

For about thirty seconds, he stayed outside and listened. Brittany definitely flirted with someone, and he doubted it was a female nurse. No, the coy little blonde only used that voice with a man. He was sure of it.

“Oh, Doctor Wolfe, thank you so much for fixing my ankle.”

Wolfe? Naw, couldn’t be possible. Then the man spoke and all that familiarity rushed back into every cell in Jag’s body. Why the hell did he have to be there out of all the hospitals in the area? And in the middle of the night?

Pulling back the curtain, he saw Brittany in the hospital bed and a familiar man in a white lab coat over khakis.

“Mick! They finally let you come see me. I can finally get out of here.”

They must’ve given her some painkillers based on the giddy way she spoke, but Jag ignored the girl and pulled up short at the sight of him.

“Zayne?” he whispered.

Zayne looked up and captured Jag’s gaze. Shock followed elation and ended in anger as Jag stared in stunned silence, realizing his former house guest was there—administering to his client. Paralyzed and incapable of doing anything but stare, Jag’s mind raced. His heartbeat sped up, and his breath caught in his throat. His fucking traitorous dick didn’t make the situation easier. Was it possible for Zayne to be even more desirable than when he last saw him less than a week ago? He wasn’t in pajama bottoms, half-naked, and battered and bruised, but in a white lab coat. Cleaned up, he was more handsome than Jag remembered—those mesmerizing blue eyes, luscious lips and a body made for sin.

What am I thinking?

Somehow he broke from his paralytic state and turned away, focusing on Brittany instead of the man who’d run out on him.